A Modern Day Renaissance Man in Mid-Midlife Crisis...

I'm an accidentally domesticated, taxpaying homeowner with an ex-wife and three kids who are hell bent on driving me into bankruptcy. I enjoy naps, mexican food, adult beverages, adult films, speaking in tongues, baseball and getting pissed about stuff.
Like so much Green Acres, my family and I moved from a perfectly good home in the city to an old, delapidated house in the country that is falling apart.
When I'm not performing unlicensed electrical work or installing hardwood floors, I spend my time trying to balance my check book, hauling the kids to and from their activites, planning my impending mid-life crisis, drinking, wallowing in self pitty, pondering the meaning of life and fantacising about winning the lottery.

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The views expressed by the author of this website do not necessarily reflect the views of this website, those who read the content of this website, the author's children, mother, father, sisters, uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins, step relations, any other blood relative not specifically mentioned, ex-wife, future wife(s), future ex-wife(s), in-laws, outlaws, friends, acquaintances, strangers and/or the author himself.

Furthermore, the events depicted herein are loosely based on the truth and are intended for entertainment purposes only. The content of this site is intended for a mature audience and does contain profanity, political incorrectness, childish references to sexual organs, descriptions of bodily functions and is often created while the author is not wearing pants. These stories may be offensive to small children, pregnant women, religious zealots, Democrats, lesbians, retards, carnival workers, PETA activists, vegetarians and anyone who has one of those “My Child is an Honor Student” bumper stickers displayed on their car. Any resemblances to actual or fictitious events described by persons dead or un-dead are purely coincidental and are not sufficient grounds for litigation.

Basically, it’s not my fucking fault if you can’t take a joke, so don’t sue me… First Amendment, bitches!

The Chronicles of Back Surgery - Part VIII: The Road to Recovery

Right before lunchtime, the nurse finally came in with all of the discharge paperwork. She went over the forms and gave me instructions on how to change the bandages covering my incision. Dr. Brown then stopped by and said that he’d need me to make an appointment with his office before Christmas to check my progress and talk about starting physical therapy. He also told me that I was not to do any bending, stooping or lift anything over 10 lbs. for the next 30 days. I let him know that I had long since abandoned my dream of becoming the world’s first 300-pound ninja, and that I was confident I could carry out his safety instructions without a problem. I still couldn’t feel my legs and couldn’t walk; therefore I was issued a shiny new, metallic candy-apple-red walker. It must have been the Corvette of walkers because every 70 year-old in that hospital turned green with envy when the nurse had me take it out for a test drive in the hall.

With my shit packed up, my race-walker in tow and my ass firmly planted in a wheelchair, the nurse rolled me toward the lobby. Life as I knew it had changed during my short time in the hospital. I knew the road to recovery went through physical therapy, but never realized it would take me all the way to a mid-life crisis. I always envisioned my mid-life crisis taking place in Vegas surrounded by silicone-breasted, blond strippers and sports cars. Instead, I got a trip to the hospital, a vomit-covered retard and a walker… As I lay here in bed doing exercises to regain the feeling in my legs, I often wonder how things went so terribly wrong. I keep waiting for the neon light at the end of the tunnel.